


a little unsteady

by gmorningfaith



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Gen, I did, i guess this is a character study of john murphy?, i just wanted to write him and so, idk?, murphamy feels in later updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6426394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gmorningfaith/pseuds/gmorningfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is a character study (i guess?) of john murphy, aka my trash babe. it starts with his childhood, and i may well continue it throughout the entirety of the show, but we'll see. </p>
<p>title: unsteady, x ambassadors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John, the kid

John was a boy born to a loving mother, and a loving father. He was held in the arms of his mother while his father looked over the two of them, his large hands resting against the newborn's head. Both parents smiled down at the boy, their son. He was tucked into bed each night, his mother sitting on the side of his bed as she read storybook after storybook to him. Tales of pirate ships, mermaids, and children who never aged. Tales of ruby slippers, lions, tigers, bears, and emerald cities. Tales of rabbits running late, tea parties, and queens with shrill demands. His father would kiss his head, mumbling a good night as John rolled over in his covers, pulling his blanket up to his chin, falling fast to sleep as his eyelids fluttered shut.  
John was a boy who ran through the halls with another boy, also by the name of John. Mbege. He would rap his knuckles against the metal door, hearing shuffling on the other side, waiting patiently for the door to creak open and the other boy to come out. He would retell the adventurous stories to Mbege and the two young boys who pretend to be Captain Hook and Peter Pan, or the Mad Hatter and the Doormouse. It was a small world, but it was theirs.

John was a boy who tried his best in school. He read up everything given to him, studied what he needed to study, practiced his work each night, and still it wasn't enough. There were many tears in the Murphy household as the boy sat at the table, reading pages aloud and slamming his fists into the table when the words seemed to move across the page and jumble together. His mother would sit with him for hours, helping him sound out the words and piecing together their meanings by his side. His father would pull the boy into his lap, brushing the tears from his face with a gentle touch, telling him that the effort was the most important thing.

John was a boy who had never been the strongest, always easy to bruise and quick to catch any illness floating around the Ark. The flu was no different. His body shook with chills, though his bed was soaked in sweat. His throat was raw, and yet he continued to cough until blood stained his hands. Every inch of his body ached, and he heaved into the bin by his bedside while his mother pressed rags to his head. His father couldn't stand by any longer, stowing away to the Medical Wing where his fingers clenched around medicine that was not his to take. Alex Murphy was not a stealthy man, caught and told that the medicine would not help his son anyway. It was a pointless crime, and he would die for having committed it.

John was a boy who was not allowed at his father's funeral. He did not see Alex Murphy shot out into the cold, oxygen-less void of space. But when his mother returned to their home, her eyes were red and puffy. Tears still ran down her face, and she walked right past her son who sat at the table with a book. He watched her walk back to her bedroom, hearing the door close and lock behind her. He tried to focus on the words on the pages, but none of it seemed to matter. His illness had almost faded, though he still let out a heavy cough, tasting metallics on the back of his tongue. He stumbled over the words, but none of them came out right, and the boy slammed it shut, shoving the book across the table so hard that it flew off, hitting against the wall and falling to the ground with a loud thud. There was no sound from behind his mother's door, and so the boy picked up the book and walked silently to his bedroom. Whenever there was a knock at the door, the boy would open it because his mother was too intoxicated to do so. Mbege would often be on the other side, fear in his eyes as his friend told him that he couldn't come play. Mbege would try to talk to the boy at school, to get him to play one of their old games with him again, but he wouldn't. He couldn't. His focus lay elsewhere.

John was a boy whose mother drug him into her lap, her nails digging into the skin of his wrist as she did so. She would rock with him in her lap, the scent of alcohol clinging to her breath. "Read to me, John." It isn't a nice plea, a suggestion from a mother who wishes to listen to her son's voice. It is a slurred demand, and her eyes are wide as she watches his hands tremble over the cover of the book in his hands. He trips over the very first word, and the second, and the third. Her grip around him tightens, and the boy feels like he's suffocating. He stumbles through the page, and onto the next, but she stops him and he feels relief. "That's enough for today. Go get mommy a drink." He slides from her tight grip, feeling purple bruises forming already. His feet are heavy as he crosses the room to search the cabinets for her glass bottles, returning to her without meeting her gaze as he holds it out for her. He sits on the floor at her feet, reading under his breath to himself as she empties the bottle. When it is empty, she places it hazardously on the end table. But as the boy continues to stumble through the words, none of them pronounced correctly, she grows angrier. She slams the bottle from the table and it crashes on the floor beside him, glass shards scratching his arms. He jumps, pulling into himself, waiting... But she simply reaches down for him, her tight grip digging into his skin once more as she pulls him up into her lap. "Read to me, John."

John was a boy who found his mother laying on the cold floor of their compartment. He dropped his school-books, rushing to her and falling to his knees as his hands reached out to her face. He cried out, his vision blurring, as his mother's foggy eyes met his. The room smelled horrible, and there was glass shards littering the floor. Alcohol and vomit mixed together around her, staining the knees of his pants as he knelt by her side. Tears slid down his face as he tried to pull her up. If she sat up, she would be fine. He would put her into the shower, clean her up, get her another drink. It was all he knew. She would be okay. Her nails dug into his skin, and the boy didn't even flinch away this time. He let her nails bite into him, not caring that they were re-opening scabs that he was convinced would never fully heal. He expected to hear her words, her demanding tone, telling him to go get a book and read to her. But instead, the words that came out were different. He'd never heard them before, but that didn't mean that he hadn't thought them late at night when he couldn't sleep with no one to read to him, or tuck him in. "Your father... It's your fault. You killed him." She heaves again, and the boy can't bring himself to do anything. Her nails fall from him, her body going limp. He is unsure of how long he sits there, beside his mother's dead body, surrounded by glass, vomit, and alcohol.


	2. Mbege, the friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But John feels like another little boy, someone that you grew up watching from a distance.  
> You are Murphy, and Murphy is different.

You don't feel like John. Those memories feel like they belong to someone else. They plague your nightmares, and you can feel nails digging into your already bruised skin. You can hear the crashing of glass bottles, her demandingly soft voice, and the sweat that breaks out across your forehead as you stumble over the words. But John feels like another little boy, someone that you grew up watching from a distance. You are Murphy, and Murphy is different.  
You didn't let people in like John did. You didn't try so hard like John did. You learned from his mistakes. You didn't trust. You didn't believe. You didn't have faith. You wanted to oh so badly. But you couldn't. It never seemed to be in the cards for you. While everyone else had mothers, fathers, and friends... You had no one. Mbege was the only one who sat by your side at meals, in classes, through it all. Even when you pushed him away before and after your mother's passing, he refused to budge. He let you work through whatever it was that you needed to, seeming to understand that some things were beyond help and that you would work it out. As time passed, you considered him a friend once more. He knew the ins and outs of your life, through what he put together on his own and what you admitted in the late hours of the night spent in his bedroom where you would often spend the night, just down the hall from your old home.

You grew to think of him as a brother. He didn't mind you reading aloud, stumbling over words that were mispronounced. He listened, repeating some of the words correctly for you to fix, but letting ninety percent of them go without correction. When you got into fights with some other kid because they said something about your parents, Mbege was right there, pulling you back and shooting dirty looks at whoever had taunted you. When you swiped an extra ration, Mbege was glancing over your shoulders, always the look-out on your adventures. When things went wrong, Mbege was there to help fix them.

One night, another one spent on the floor of his bedroom with a pillow under your head and an extra blanket tossed over you, you woke from a nightmare. You could still feel your mother's rough touch, and your hands gripped your wrists in search of scratches left behind from her fingernails. There were none, none that were new, at least. You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, sat up and pushed your hair back from your face. It's so quiet in the room, it hurt your ears. Just as the thought crossed your mind, Mbege's familiar voice pierced through the darkness. "I didn't know if I should wake you when you started..." His voice trailed off and you tried to shrug it off, but there were tears in your eyes and you were tired of being alone. So you told him everything. He slid off his bed, taking a seat beside you on the floor. He didn't reach out to hug you or lean against you, but knowing he was there was comfort enough.

You didn't feel whole without Mbege at your side. He was even there as you were both cuffed and drug to the Skybox after a robbery gone wrong. A few extra rations of the desert baked special for Unity Day, because you two boys have a craving for something sweet, and a guard swooped down on both of you. You are charged with robbery, and Mbege with assistance of robbery. You feel guilt rising up from the pit of your stomach as you look across the cell at him asleep on his cot. He's only here because of you. If you two hadn't been friends, if you hadn't spent so much time in his family's home after your own parents passed... He only did these things because you wanted to. You needed to do something that felt like a risk, knowing you could be caught at any moment, and somewhere deep down you'd known that you would. You just never thought that Mbege, the boy who was practically a brother in your eyes, would suffer the consequences just the same as you.

You try to distance yourself, but it's not easy when you share a cell and sleep only a few feet away from one another. Still, a few days with you nodding, scoffing, and grunting your way through conversation and Mbege can't deal with it anymore. You feel his hand clamp down on your shoulder as you turn towards your cot one night and you turn your head to look over your shoulder. The two words that fall from his lips bring heated tears to the brim of your eyes. "You okay?" You'd expected some snappy comment, anger at how short you'd been with him lately, but instead there was Mbege's never-wavering concern. He thought you were struggling because you'd be floated like your father. That hadn't even crossed your mind. You'd been struggling because of Mbege facing that same fate, because of you. You don't tell him this. You let him believe his own thoughts. They're easier than the truth.

You never really know what day it is in the Skybox. They all blur together. There isn't a whole lot to do. Conversation is really the only thing. You don't have visitors. Mbege's parents always tell him to say hello for them, but they aren't going to waste their visitation day on you. They'd rather see their son, and you don't mind. It doesn't matter if anyone comes to see you or not. It's not like it would make a difference. Days and nights blend together and eventually it numbs you.

You have gotten into a routine. A routine that is broken the day that the guards come into the Skybox, more of them than usually monitor the prison, and began cuffing delinquents and escorting them out. No one knows what is going on until you are all in a drop ship. You're strapped in, no handcuffs remaining, but there's a stinging pain underneath your new bracelet. You look across rows of familiar faces, people you've spent a year in prison with and never spoken more than a handful of words to. Mbege is by your side, but you don't speak. Chancellor Jaha appears and your stomach drops. He always makes you sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've always loved the idea that mbege and murphy were super close? so this is just sort of my headcanon. obviously we don't know much about mbege, or how long he and murphy knew one another, but.... i like murph having somebody to count on and be a little more open with! 
> 
> <3


	3. Bellamy, the obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your eyes fall on a man with slicked back hair and olive skin. 
> 
> He looked older than eighteen and it's obvious that he wasn't a prisoner. 
> 
> He's in a guard's uniform, after all.

The dropship lands with a loud crash. A wave of chaos floods the vessel and the sound of seat belts unbuckling and people yelling as they clamber down towards the first level of the ship is all around you. You are one of them, your shaking hands on your seatbelt as Mbege does the same. The two of you push through crowds and your eyes fall on a man with slicked back hair and olive skin. He looked older than eighteen and it's obvious that he wasn't a prisoner. He's in a guard's uniform, after all. Clarke Griffin, princess of the Ark, was arguing with him about opening the doors. You rolled your eyes. _"Bellamy?"_ The ship was quiet, other than the sound of the girl walking towards the man standing at the entrance of the dropship. You strain to hear even though you're standing so close. Blake. Second child. Masquerade. It rings a few bells in your mind, not that you've ever been one to pay much attention to those kinds of things.

But it doesn't matter. Because Bellamy is pulling he lever and the door drops open, fresh air and bright light pouring inside. You feel the breeze on your skin and the warmth of the sunlight beating down. It's indescribable. You barely notice Bellamy's sister -- Octavia, somebody called her -- stepping down the door and onto the dirt. Real life dirt. It isn't until she screams out that you remember to breathe. Mbege grabs your shoulder, and you turn to him with a grin. _"We're back, bitches!"_ Everyone is running and screaming and laughing. 

You feel the rough tree bark under your fingertips for the first time. The stillness of the ground beneath your feet holds no vibration and there is no hum of churning gears in your ears. You feel the wind, the grass, the rain. Oh, god, the rain. It's warm, constant, and cleansing. You stare up at the dark sky that's covered in clouds from a view that you've never had before as the raindrops hit your skin. It's incredible. Mbege shoves you, muttering something about a 'movie moment.' You tell him to go float himself, but make your way towards a few rocks under cover of the trees with him at your side. You're both quiet as you watch the rain, reaching out a hand to feel the wetness pouring through the branches. 

Later. _"Someone's gotta help me run things."_ You watch him turn and walk away, completely oblivious to Mbege's shit-eating grin as your friend stares you down until you turn and look at him with a glare that could kill. Too bad Mbege has become immune after years of exposure to the look. _"He's cute,'_ Mbege says, nothing but support in his tone, and you shove him square in the chest as you turn to walk away. You hear his footfalls behind you, and you smile a little to yourself as he catches up. _"Aw, come on, Murph! I'm just teasing."_ But that's just the beginning. 

You're removing wristbands, no matter how much of a fight you have to put up to break them off some people. Bellamy wants them gone. 

You're on Wells Jaha, but two strong hands grip just below your shoulders and two warm eyes are on your face, begging you to look at them and regain your composure. Bellamy wants you to stop. 

You're on a 'rescue mission' to find the kid with the goggles and when the group splits up, it's Clarke that he commands to go with him and you can't help how your heart drops. Bellamy asked you along. 

You're trading wristbands for panther meat; Nobody with a wristband gets to eat. Bellamy's rule. 

You're watching as Atom is strung up to a tree in the woods for kissing Octavia. Bellamy will not be disobeyed. 

You're in the forest with the curly haired man, throwing your knife that doesn't stick into the bark like you want it to, but he's teaching you. Bellamy's axe does not waver as it hits the bark in the tree. 

You're talking to him and the words slip out before he interrupts, fire in his eyes like you've never seen directed at you, and before you know it you're spitting out an apology but there is still anger in the gaze you feel on your back as you turn away. Bellamy doesn't like hearing Octavia called 'psycho.' But your knife sticks into the tree for the first time, like he taught you. 

_"You son of a bitch!"_ The princess' voice rings in your ears as you turn towards her. She has your knife. You reach for it, but she pulls it back. Wells. You didn't kill him. You eyes shift past her towards Bellamy, asking him if he believes the bullshit she's spewing. No answer. Plenty of people hated Wells. No answer. It didn't mean that you killed him. No answer. You shake your head. You don't have to answer to anyone. Then, finally, there is an answer. _"Come again?"_ You freeze, your blue eyes landing on the once warm eyes that are now hard. You're practically begging. You didn't do this. Does he really not believe you? The others you can understand, but Bellamy? You've followed him around camp since he spoke those six words to you and Mbege. You've done nothing but what he asked. You've admired him from afar and up close. You know the way his hair curls in the wind and the way the freckles dot the bridge of his nose and how the sun looks reflected in his deep brown eyes. The others are on you before you know it, and you're on the ground as pain radiates through your body with each movement of the others. The kicks and punches stop, but then there's a bright red seatbelt around your neck and you're teetering on a bucket. 

You beg through the gag in your mouth, but the words don't even sound like words to you. You doubt anyone else can make them out. If they could, all they'd hear was one word. One name. Repeatedly. Bellamy. You're frantically trying to keep your balance atop the bucket, but the crowd of delinquents is chanting the same name as you and he is their leader. He has to do what's right for his people, even if it's wrong. He approaches, and then the bucket is gone and you're flailing as the seatbelt burns at the skin of your neck and you're struggling for even one breath of air. After what feels like years, you're on the ground and Clarke is pulling you up, tearing the gag from your mouth and Mbege is right there with her. You barely register them. Your eyes are on Bellamy as he stares after Charlotte, the little brat that got you into this fucking mess. It's then, in the moment that he doesn't turn around to see if you're okay, that you know whatever friendship you've been building is gone. 

You feel foolish for ever having hope. 

And even more foolish when he walks out of the tent and tells you to back off. They-- No. It wasn't they. It was he. You don't care about the rest of them. It was Bellamy who kicked the bucket out from beneath your feet while you begged his name over and over again into the gag. **He** was willing to hang you to death for killing Wells while you denied repeatedly that you had anything to do with it, but when Charlotte confesses, he wants to protect her. The embarrassment of your hope only fuels your anger. You chase after her through the night, with Mbege and a few others at your side. Then Clarke is in your arms and your knife is to her throat. The waves crash against the cliff below you. _"I can't let any of you get hurt anymore. Not after what I did."_ She jumps. A twelve-year-old girl jumps from the cliffside to the raging waters below. Your grip on Clarke disappears, but before you know it, Bellamy is on you and his fists are painting purple bruises and red blood-splatters across your skin. 

_"If I ever catch you near camp, we'll be back here. Understand? "_ You nod your head shakily, still unsure of what has just happened in a mere twelve hours. The ones who followed you through the woods in search of Charlotte leave with the rest of them. Even Mbege. 

You are alone. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, here's that murphamy i promised. and i kind of broke my writing style a bit with this chapter because the style i'd been using wasn't really working out for me. oh well. 
> 
> i've always headcanoned the idea that murphy is lowkey in love with bellamy throughout the first four episodes, so i loved writing that out. 
> 
> all these kudos are so appreciated <3 thank you guys so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first thing i've ever published anywhere so.... i don't know. but i'm pretty proud of how it's turned out so far! i'm working on the next that gets into murphy's life on


End file.
